


Up Against

by fid_gin



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fid_gin/pseuds/fid_gin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You're both alive and here's the proof, and no matter what happens tomorrow you shared <b>this</b>.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Against

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some interview I read or heard somewhere in which Norman Reedus said (paraphrasing) he doesn't think Daryl is the type to passionately throw a woman up against a tree in the moonlight and ravage her. Well, challenge accepted, Mr. Reedus!
> 
> Rated Mature for not-terribly explicit, but quick and dirty, post-apocalyptic sex. Against a tree. In the moonlight. BOOM.

Flames and walkers at your back, the whole wide world in front of you and Daryl Dixon at your side, you walk and then run away from the burning house - moonshine pumping in your veins and moon _light_ above to light your way. At some point, you're not sure who, but one of you grabs the other's hand, and your fingers entwine as you run, the night air cooling the sweat beading at your forehead.

Finally you stop, both of you gasping for breath. You're laughing - you burned down and flipped off a _house_ \- and even Daryl cracks an almost-smile which is, like, _delirious joy_ for him. He looks younger. _Freer._ He's _beautiful_ , he's some wild animal you can't help but want to take home and feed even though you know it's dangerous, but _he_ thinks he's 'nothing' and 'just some redneck asshole', and you're both still drunk and it's the easiest thing in the world when you throw your arms around him and just kiss the hell out of him like you've wanted to for a really long time.

He tenses immediately, and you think _Oh no, nononodon'truinit_ , fist your hands in his jacket to keep him from pulling away and kiss him harder. You should be thinking about how you, the two of you, can possibly recover from this when you're sobered up and he's withdrawn again like he always does, but instead you feel powerful, you feel _right._ You bared your soul to him tonight, and you _will_ kiss him whether he likes it or not. Because you think maybe he does like it, maybe he likes _you_ even if he would never, ever say it - it's in the way he looks at you, and the way he's only really angry at you when you disappoint him.

Seconds pass that feel like hours, or maybe it's the other way around, and you're on the verge of writing this off as a mistake when you feel it: just the slightest hint of a response from Daryl, a head-tilt, a low noise in his throat that you feel rather than hear, his lips moving almost imperceptibly against yours. His hands hover somewhere near your waist, not quite touching, unsure, and it occurs to you for the first time that Daryl Dixon might not be much more experienced than you are. Okay. If you need to take the reins on this, so to speak, so be it.

You grab his hands and _push_ them to your waist - touch me _here_ , your hands say. He gets it: his hands slide over the curve of your waist and curl in handfuls of yellow shirt at your hips. The kiss deepens, you feel Daryl's tongue slide against yours...and something snaps, almost audibly.

Daryl grabs you by the ass and pulls you against him, and you can't help but gasp into his mouth. He breaks the kiss and moves to devour your neck, walking you backwards. It's all you can do to hang on, digging your fingers into his shoulders, head thrown back, staring up at the moon.

Your back hits a tree.

This is really happening, and all you can think is _yes yes yes_ which you realize at some point you're saying out loud as Daryl palms your breast through your shirt, pushing you harder against the tree, pulling at your jeans hard enough to pop the button off - they're threadbare and mostly held together by hope at this point anyway, and you find you don't give a fuck ( _sorry, Daddy_ ) if he tears them right off your body. There's moonshine in your blood and moonshine on Daryl's breath, and he still has his crossbow slung across his back as you wiggle out of just one boot and one leg of your jeans and one side of your panties that were clean...three days ago.

Daryl unbuckles his belt and his pants fall around his ankles - of _course_ he goes commando, and you almost giggle but you're too turned on to. Then it's awkward lifting, shifting, leaning back and wrapping one leg around him and your arms around his neck but careful not to bump his bow or arrows and then he's inside you, he growls "Jesus _Christ._ "

The bark of the tree shreds your back with every thrust, your arms shake with the effort of hanging on, every twig snap nearby could be a walker about to tear you both apart and you don't care, all that matters is the moon and the heat and the darkness and Daryl Dixon fucking you against a tree right out in the open in front of God and everybody. He's rough, but you knew he would be. That's what you need right now.

You both sound like animals: panting, grunting - this is primal, the most basic, natural thing; you're both alive and here's the proof, and no matter what happens tomorrow you shared _this._

You've never come from just sex before; you don't expect it until it's happening and you're shouting, you can't help it, don't realize it until he claps a hand over your mouth. Daryl pulls out at the last second and finishes on your stomach and your jeans, but again: you don't care. He said himself that you'd both never see any of the others ever again, and if you _do_ , you hardly think they're going to ask about any new stains on your pants.

That thought, and coming down from your orgasm, _does_ make you laugh: you hang on to Daryl, both of you half undressed in the middle of nowhere, in a world full of walking corpses, half-drunk and his semen sticky against your stomach and you laugh at the beautiful absurdity of it. You want to assure him that you're not laughing at him, but then he chuckles, too - a sort-of quiet and non-commital chuckle, but for Daryl that's _huge._

You separate and he lowers you, finally shrugs off the crossbow and sets it down tenderly, and gives you his bandana to wipe off with, then you both pull on your clothes. Then, you stare at each other.

There's so much you want to say: that this doesn't have to mean anything, but that it _did_ kinda mean everything. That he didn't hurt you, except he did a little bit. That it was perfect in the sheer imperfection of it, and that it never has to happen again but you wouldn't mind if it did, and soon.

But it's Daryl that speaks first: "You wanna learn to track?" The weight of that question with what just happened, you feel like he's just handed you a ring and asked you to go steady, and for him, it's probably the same thing.

You smile that 'let's-burn-it-down' smile, and say "Yeah, I do."


End file.
